Cup full to the brim
Lips part towards the trim
Eyes shine with spots
Mind filled with stops
Neat bottles are blood tainted
Her face red and blue painted
The melody lacking a taste of love
Empty boneless birds, flying from above like doves
Circling the ground that shoves
Sweet Miss Sally should of, would of, could
Felling empty but yet she is very certainly still understood
No backing or tracking the sound
Oh merciless emptying draining the flesh as they pound
Complaining to the fallen angel
Who eats the a holy fruited twisted bagel
Planted the seeds
That bared the lovely weeds
Sacrificing the humble of the village people greed
Peace dropping out
Results into a copping out
Your eyes bright
Colliding the with ever so dark and so spacious sky of night
Will forever and ever
Be the song that was recorded by the angel Never
But your cup is full to the brim
And My name is Jim.